Act 5 — WHAT YOU WILL.
Reading edition
What Yov Will. By Iohn Marston. Imprinted at London by G. Eld, for Thomas Thorppe. 1607. 4to.
STORY OF THE PLAY.
Albano, a rich Venetian merchant, is reported to have been drowned at sea; whereupon his wife, Celia, is beset with suitors, and her choice falls upon a French knight, Laverdure. Jacomo, a disappointed suitor, plots with Albano’s brothers, Andrea and Randolfo, to disturb the match, and for this purpose they disguise Francisco, a perfumer, in the habiliments of Albano; but the plot is detected by Laverdure’s page, Bidet, who communicates the discovery to his master. The true Albano now arrives upon the scene, and encountering Laverdure, is accosted as Francisco, and is told that the plot has been discovered. Laverdure leaves him in a distraction of rage and amazement, which is not lessened when Jacomo and his own brothers approach and congratulate him on his powers of deception. A meeting between Albano and the disguised Francisco presently ensues. While Celia is entertaining her friends, Albano and Francisco clamour for admittance. Laverdure had told Celia (and the news had been spread abroad) that he intended to disguise a fiddler in the likeness of Albano as a foil to the disguised perfumer. When Albano and Francisco appear, Celia imagines that one is the fiddler and the other the perfumer. The true Albano and the counterfeit Albano, after engaging in a lively skirmish, declare that they will appeal to the Duke. When they retire Laverdure protests that he knows nothing of the new claimant, but his words are disregarded. The rivals appeal to the Duke, and the mystery is quickly solved when Albano, taking Celia aside, shows her a secret mark on his person, and reminds her of words that he had spoken on a certain memorable occasion.
INDUCTION.
Before the music sounds for the Act, enter Atticus, Doricus, and Philomuse; they sit a good while on the stage before the candles are lighted, talking together, and on sudden Doricus speaks.
Enter Tireman with lights.
Dor. O fie, some lights! Sirs, fie! let there be no deeds of darkness done among us. Ay,—so, so, prithee, Tireman, set Signior Snuff a-fire: he’s a choleric gentleman; he will take pepper in the nose[393] instantly; fear not. ’Fore heaven, I wonder they tolerate him so near the stage.
Phi. Faith, Doricus, thy brain boils; keel[394] it, keel it, or all the fat’s in the fire; in the name of Phœbus, what merry genius haunts thee to-day? Thy lips play with feathers. 10
Dor. Troth, they should pick straws before they should be idle.
Atti. But why—but why dost thou wonder they dare suffer Snuff so near the stage?
Dor. O, well recall’d; marry, Sir Signior Snuff, Monsieur Mew, and Cavaliero Blirt, are three of the most-to-be-fear’d auditors that ever——
Phi. Pish! for shame! stint thy idle chat.
Dor. Nay, dream whatsoe’er your fantasy swims on, Philomuse; I protest, in the love you have procured me to bear your friend the author, I am vehemently fearful this threefold halter of contempt that chokes the breath of wit, these aforesaid tria sunt omnia, knights of the mew,[395] will sit heavy on the skirts of his scenes, if—— 24
Phi. If what? Believe it, Doricus, his spirit Is higher blooded than to quake and pant At the report of Scoff’s artillery. Shall he be crest-fall’n, if some looser brain, In flux of wit uncivilly befilth His slight composures? Shall his bosom faint, 30 If drunken Censure belch out sour breath From Hatred’s surfeit on his labour’s front? Nay, say some half a dozen rancorous breasts Should plant themselves on purpose to discharge Imposthum’d malice on his latest scene, Shall his resolve be struck through with the blirt Of a goose-breath? What imperfect-born, What short-liv’d meteor, what cold-hearted snow Would melt in dolour, cloud his mudded eyes, Sink down his jaws, if that some juiceless husk, 40 Some boundless ignorance, should on sudden shoot His gross-knobb’d burbolt[396] with—“That’s not so good; Mew, blirt, ha, ha, light chaffy stuff!” Why, gentle spirits, what loose-waving vane, What anything, would thus be screw’d about With each slight touch of odd phantasmatas? No, let the feeble palsey’d lamer joints Lean on opinion’s crutches; let the——
Dor. Nay, nay, nay. Heaven’s my hope, I cannot smooth this strain; 50 Wit’s death, I cannot. What a leprous humour Breaks from rank swelling of these bubbling wits? Now out upon’t, I wonder what tight brain, Wrung in this custom to maintain contempt ’Gainst common censure;[397] to give stiff counter-buffs, To crack rude scorn even on the very face Of better audience. Slight, is’t not odious? Why, hark you, honest, honest Philomuse (You that endeavour to endear our thoughts To the composer’s spirit), hold this firm: 60 Music and poetry were first approved By common sense; and that which pleasèd most, Held most allowèd pass: know,[398] rules of art Were shaped to pleasure, not pleasure to your rules; Think you, if that his scenes took stamp in mint Of three or four deem’d most judicious, It must enforce the world to current them, That you must spit defiance on dislike? Now, as I love the light, were I to pass Through public verdict, I should fear my form, 70 Lest ought I offer’d were unsquared or warp’d. The more we know, the more we want: What Bayard[399] bolder than the ignorant? Believe me, Philomuse, i’faith thou must, The best, best seal of wit is wit’s distrust.
Phi. Nay, gentle Doricus.
Dor. I’ll hear no more of him; nay, and your friend the author, the composer, the What You Will, seems so fair in his own glass, so straight in his own measure, that he talks once of squinting critics, drunken censure, splay-footed opinion, juiceless husks, I ha’ done with him, I ha’ done with him. 82
Phi. Pew, nay then——
Dor. As if any such unsanctified stuff could find a being ’mong these ingenuous breasts.
Atti. Come, let pass, let pass; let’s see what stuff must clothe our ears. What’s the play’s name?
Phi. What You Will.
Dor. Is’t comedy, tragedy, pastoral, moral, nocturnal, or history? 90
Phi. Faith, perfectly neither, but even What You Will,—a slight toy, lightly composed, too swiftly finish’d, ill plotted, worse written, I fear me worst acted, and indeed What You Will.
Dor. Why, I like this vein well now.
Atti. Come, we strain the spectators’ patience in delaying their expected delights. Let’s place ourselves within the curtains, for good faith the stage is so very little, we shall wrong the general eye else very much.
Phi. If you’ll stay but a little, I’ll accompany you; I have engaged myself to the author to give a kind of inductive speech to his comedy. 102
Atti. Away! you neglect yourself, a gentleman——
Phi. Tut, I have vow’d it; I am double charged; go off as ’twill, I’ll set fire to it.
Dor. I’ll not stand it; may chance recoil, and be not stuffed with saltpetre: well, mark the report; mark the report.
Phi. Nay, prithee stay; ’slid the female presence, the Genteletza, the women will put me out. 110
Dor. And they strive to put thee out, do thou endeavour to put them.
Atti. In good faith, if they put thee out of countenance, put them out of patience, and hew their ears with hacking imperfect utterance.
Dor. Go, stand to it; show thyself a tall man of thy tongue; make an honest leg; put off thy cap with discreet carriage: and so we leave thee to the kind gentlemen and most respected auditors.
[Exeunt, all but Philomuse.
PROLOGUS.
Nor labours he the favour of the rude, Nor offers sops unto the Stygian dog, To force a silence in his viperous tongues; Nor cares he to insinuate the grace Of loath’d detraction, nor pursues the love Of the nice critics of this squeamish age; Nor strives he to bear up with every sail Of floating censure; nor once dreads or cares What envious hand his guiltless muse hath struck; Sweet breath from tainted stomachs who can suck? But to the fair proportion’d loves of wit, 11 To the just scale of even, paizèd[400] thoughts; To those that know the pangs of bringing forth A perfect feature; to their gentle minds, That can as soon slight of as find a blemish; To those, as humbly low as to their feet, I am obliged to bend—to those his muse Makes solemn honour for their wish’d delight. He vows industrious sweat shall pale his cheek, But he’ll gloss up sleek objects for their eyes; 20 For those he is asham’d his best’s too bad. A silly subject, too too[401] simply clad, Is all his present, all his ready pay For many debts. Give further day.[402] I’ll give a proverb,—Sufferance giveth ease: So you may once be paid, we once may please.
[Exit.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Duke of Venice. Albano, a merchant. Jacomo, in love with Celia. Andrea, and Randolfo, brothers to Albano. Quadratus. Laverdure, a Frenchman. Lampatho Doria. Simplicius Faber. Francisco, a perfumer. Philus, page to Jacomo. Bidet, page to Laverdure. Slip, page to Albano. Holofernes Pippo, page to Simplicius. A Schoolmaster. Battus, Nous, Nathaniel, and Slip, schoolboys. Noose, Trip, and Doit, pages.
Celia, wife to Albano. Maletza, sister to Celia. Lyzabetta. Lucia, waiting-woman to Celia.
The Scene—Venice.